A blog mostly focused on poetry. I am not sure I understand anything else.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

The Hair of the Dog

As we approach the close of "Takaaki" the writing becomes more difficult.

So many loose ends to tie up, so many duplicate rhymes to be avoided, so many technical problems to be corrected, so many things alluded to in previous portions of the poem that need to be accounted for and explained. I am trying to be patient, but I have been working on this piece since May, almost to the exclusion of everything else, and I am getting worn down. I can see the conclusion, the mountaintop poking through the mist, but there remains the mist to be traveled through, and no smiling sherpa to guide me.

By my internal calculations, I think we have about 6 or 7 more sonnets to go in the poem, until the first draft is finished. After that, come the visions and revisions which a moment will reverse.

Today, I have two new sonnets to offer. These I have been tinkering with since Thursday.

The only notes I have about the additions to the text are that a "calumet" is a peace pipe, not just a can of baking powder. And "American Spirit" is a brand of cigarette primarily known for offering un-doctored tobacco to the health-conscious smoker.

Today's additions occur at the end.

Part IV

The crude compartment I created whenI focused on the concrete, glass and steelElements of Takaaki’s place, I meantMerely as a skeleton. I feelI ought to add some flesh: tatami matsSurrounded by delicate shoji—that’sThe painted screen (with paper windows) whichSeparates our rooms; we’ll open richClosets, where futons are found folded, whileNot needed for sleeping, or some other use.Before you enter, though, remove your shoes.It is customary. On the tile,Out front, a pair of Muji slippers rest,Quietly, for comfort of the guest.

The kitchen lies left of his bolted door.It’s small, but serviceable, black and bright;It’s the best room in the apartment forStage managing a brief, pre-emptive strike,Or eating egg salad at night—eggAnd bread crumbs are more visible. PeggedTo a corkboard above the phone, two keysJingle if you pin a note. TheseKeys may unlock a mailbox, a padlock,A fair or frightening future. All I knowIs that I have an aunt Pandora, soI don’t touch them. Taka-chan will talkAnd turn them round, when he is on the phone.But he’s entitled to. It is his home.

I do not pry or criticize. I lackThose scholarly instincts. If I may,I study coffee tables. Here’s a snack:A bowl of crackers on a bamboo trayBeside The Prisoner of Azkaban.Does Azkaban share crackers with nude manGyrating on the cover of HXOr dangle them in front of him for sex?It’s not clear. Maybe Agatha Christie—This book—a Japanese translation ofThe Body in the Library—would proveHelpful in solving this—our mystery.If only I could read it. But I can’t.These characters are hard to understand.

Takaaki must provide the weirdest clues:A leather sofa, color of burnt butter,A TV tuned to Will & Grace, not news,Chilly cha, a coaster, and anotherAgatha Christie, A Pocket full of Rye.These are the blackbirds baked into the pyeWe set before the reader—who is king.Don’t let these details fly away, but sing,Caw, croak, somehow illuminateThe mystery of love in ways which menWith tight abdominals, tight asses, tenInches don’t: let that sideways figure eightI kiss, his double vaccination mark,Slowly begin glowing in the dark.

A lot of information, I suppose,To keep track of in the imagination—Especially when the list of variables growsExponentially in the equation:We know that A means Ass and B means Butt—But Double Vaccination Marks mean what?Do you see a crossed-eyed physicianOr a nation exercising caution?I see a boy unbuttoning his shirtAt school, as I once did, as a long lineOf kids advanced, some crying, and some grind-Ing teeth, one estimating how much hurtHe could endure, before his eyes or kneesCollapsed. All are suspects—possibilities.

Takaaki closed his contact case. *Snap*His irises were human once againInstead of vaguely Aryan. Adapt-Ing to the fact the Martian invasionWould be postponed, I suggested wePlay Scrabble. He agreed. He beat me.The gap between our scores I can’t recall—Except that I was slaughtered. That is all.My masterstroke, the word SYZYGIA—Conjunction of three bodies in a plane—Did not impress him much. I should explain:He nodded, “Huh.” The word he won with: THE.I hoisted myself higher, in the bath,With half a mind to go and check his math.

I let it go, happy where I was:This paneled room, his holy of holies,Floating in a cloud of bath salts—suds—Slight variation in the JapaneseUncontaminated evening soak.Steam drifted off the water, scented smoke:Inhaling orange blossoms and hot wood,I felt divine. And it felt very goodTo be a god—for that one moment. TimeItself slowed to a complete standstill.Not a single bubble burst untilTakaaki’s body settled in with mine,His feet supported by my upper thighs.Heaven is an easy sacrifice

To make in comparison with love.“Chutto samui ne?” his lengthy ‘ne’Seeking confirmation aboveAll. “I guess everyone is cold today,”I said, rotating the hot water tap.His right foot trickled down into my lapTo thank me. “Knock it off, you maniac,That tickles.” “Turn then. I will scrub your back.”Takaaki pulled his knees toward his chest,So I could circumnavigate the tub.Skin lubricated with white Dove, I sub-Mitted to his hands. It seemed the wisestCourse of action, though there was—there is—Brutal determination clutched in his fist.

My revenge came following a rinse.I gripped Takaaki by his shoulder asI scrubbed. Although I left no fingerprintsOr black and blue marks on his skin, each pass,Each soapy circle that the loofah turned,His tan grew darker—redder—like it burned.“I hope you’ll tell me if I’m hurting you,”I urged. He merely muttered, “Please, continue,”To his patella, where his cheek reposedUntil the buttons of his vertebraeBegan to disappear. Which is to say,He thought that I was finished. Once I closedThe final circle, I drew a line—A parallel—down the channel his spine

Created when he sat erect again.He shivered, like a town, under assault:Each muscle, from his coccyx to his brain,Twitched and tingled. Instantly, I feltThe thrill of pure, sadistic pleasure—An elbow in my ribs I treasureMore than the Milky Way. “Dame dayo!I hate when you do that.” “Yes, I know.That’s why I like to do it,” I confessed—I coughed—my lungs absorbing half the joltOf his swift, thoracic thunderbolt.The area around enjoyed the rest:The rug, the candle bobbing in the tub,Flame out, its dim hiss worth the pain—the rub.

Man has no more faithless friend than fire,I thought, as he retreated through the ripplesLeaving me, on my side, to admireThe swirling loofah, chocolate nipples,Suds, from his breastbone, joining cloudsOf other bubbles in the bath. SousedCandlestick retrieved, he pinched the wickOn a dry cotton washcloth. One flick,One moment later, he ignited it—The wick—with a free lighter from a brandOf cigarettes we stopped to buy in GrandCentral once: American Spirit—Whose roasted Indian, Chief Silhouette,Adorns a yellow background, calumet

In hand, smoking passively, for peace.His shadow decorates a shield, a sun,A red one—rising, setting—as you please—The symbolism of it weighs a ton.I wash my hands of symbols. In the end,We assign values to our words, defendThe ones that mean the most to us. For meThe one word is Takaaki—actually—The individual, not the poem:The hand which animates those sliding doorsMade of paper. All my metaphorsAmount to nothing, really, minus him:Just words, oscillations in the airWhich might belong to anyone, anywhere...